


Happy Father's Day, Mr. Stark

by VillainousTalking (rainbowshoes)



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Gen, No Romance, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), based on a rumor for events in Avengers 4, major character death tag happens before the fic, nothing about this is nice and happy ok, peter has a stutter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-28 13:00:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15049598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowshoes/pseuds/VillainousTalking
Summary: Peter visits Mr. Stark on Father's Day.





	Happy Father's Day, Mr. Stark

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to post this earlier and time...slipped away from me. This is based on the rumors floating around that Peter is mourning Tony Stark during Homecoming 2 and [a post on tumblr](https://marvel-lous-things.tumblr.com/post/174972196601/peter-mr-stark-its-fathers-day-peter-i-got). Lemme know if I need to update any tags, and welcome to my first mcu fic. I hope it's every bit as horrible as I intended.

“Are you ready to go, Peter?” May stands at his bedroom door in a simple brown dress with tiny yellow flowers embroidered across most of it. She looks nice, but Peter can see how tired she is. There are shadows under her eyes that she didn't bother to hide with makeup. He's pretty sure she was crying earlier, too, but he won't mention it. He knows his own eyes are red-rimmed and puffy.

“Yeah,” he mumbles. He carefully picks up the bouquet and cradles it in his arms. As he follows her out of his room and through the somewhat-cramped two bedroom apartment, he smooths one hand down the navy blue Lacoste polo. Mr. Stark had bought it for him for his sixteenth birthday. He'd laughed it off, saying that he'd asked May what Peter needed and May told him clothes, so Peter wound up with several designer shirts and jeans he hardly ever wears for fear of ruining them - and because he'd been teased mercilessly at school.

One of the other presents from that day, a more personalized gift, was the pair of sunglasses Peter slips over his eyes to block out the garish sun. Somehow, Mr. Stark had never forgotten what Peter said about all his senses being dialed up to eleven. The sunglasses are special, similar to the stuff in his Spidey suit but with dark tint to help with the harsh glare. They aren't branded with any sort of logo, so he doesn't get too much shit for wearing them to and from school like he did the few times he tried wearing the expensive clothes. Mr. Stark and May had come to the little science fair he and Ned had entered, and even though Peter only got second place, Mr. Stark treated it like Peter had won the fucking moon or something.

Peter can't quite hold in the tears as he sits in the passenger's seat of May’s car. God. He doesn't want to do this, but he also really, really does. Mr. Stark deserves it.

The drive to the cemetery isn't very long, but it feels like forever. Mr. Stark is the only reason the A/C in the old beater car works. He'd watched Peter drive in it just once before he sort of stole it for a while. May had flipped out for hours before Happy showed up driving it with Mr. Stark following in one of his less flashy cars. May tried to insist on paying him back for all the parts, but Mr. Stark told her to spend it on Peter instead, if she'd really felt like she needed to. May had, too. She’d bought Peter new clothes. That, of course, was before Peter’s birthday. Before...everything.

When they stop at the cemetery, May just sits there for a while, letting Peter make the first move. He doesn't like the way she's been treating him so gently this week. He wants things to go back to normal. They won't, probably not ever, but he can dream.

Peter doesn't have to cringe as he opens the door anymore. It no longer screams along the hinges. He slams it with a little too much force, but May doesn't say anything to him about it. Peter wishes she would. He's been deliberately pushing her buttons harder as the week passed, but she just gives him this _look_ and doesn't ever say anything. It sucks and he hates it.

The walk through the cemetery seems to take longer than the drive over. Maybe it's the heat. It's sweltering and humid and Peter's mood plummets when he realizes that May chose to just stay in the car and let him do this alone. Not that he really wants her to see him break down in tears, again, but he just...expected her to follow. He tries not to think about it. Instead, he focuses his attention on the headstones he passes, reading the names and dates and wondering if any of them were ever anything at all like Mr. Stark. But that's stupid. No one has ever been like Tony Stark. But maybe there's someone in this graveyard who meant something to another selfish kid - like Mr. Stark meant something to Peter.

He finds the correct headstone without a lot of trouble. His body isn't down there, he knows. It's mostly just a marker for people to visit. A reminder. Miss Potts had it done, even though Peter privately thinks Mr. Stark probably wouldn't want it. He's still grateful for it. He likes having this place to come back to. He feels like if he just...talks enough...then maybe Mr. Stark will listen again, like he used to.

For the first time since Peter's been here, there's nothing on the grave marker. No fan letters, no flowers, no toys, nothing. It's completely barren. That feels...wrong, somehow. He doesn't like it. Maybe it's intentional. He doesn't know. It doesn't stop him from kneeling in the slightly damp grass and placing his own small, twisted metal bouquet just under the dates.

“Uh, hey, Mr. Stark,” Peter says. He always feels a little weird, at first, talking to a slab of gold-titanium alloy. Miss Potts had it made from one of Tony's suits after FRIDAY melted them all. It has a weird texture and the color isn't right, but Peter can tell what it's made of.

“It's, uh, it’s father's day,” he continues a little awkwardly, clearing his throat when it cracks slightly over the “f” word. He settles on his butt and wraps his arms loosely around his knees. “I - I brought you some flowers.”

He picks absently at one of the strings that have frayed along the hem of his jeans. He studies the bouquet for a long moment. It's made of scrap metal, from junk he found. Dumpster diving, as Mr. Stark once called it. Well, it worked anyway. He'd borrowed the welding lab at school and made five flowers, one for each day he had after school. He only had so much time. It's not really much of a bouquet, he guesses, but he doubts Mr. Stark would mind. Mr. Stark always seemed so impressed with the stuff he made.

“I know, I mean, it's stupid, and I'm sorry if it's really uncool of me, but like,” Peter picks at the grass between his shoes, unwilling to look at the grave marker as if it were really Mr. Stark himself. “I know you aren't, like, my dad or - or anything, um, anything like that. But, you, uh, you know? I just. I thought.” He frowns as bitter, hot tears sting his eyes and make his throat feel too tight. “This was stupid. I'm sorry. I just. I miss you, you know? I know - I know I'm not, not the only one and all, but like, you… You helped me a - a lot, Mr. Stark. So much. And I, I never…” He takes a short, shallow breath, “I never got the chance to thank you for that.” He drags his legs closer to his body and fists his hands in his hair, hiding his face behind his arms. “I'm, I'm such a, such a selfish kid, still. I just don't, you know, I don't under-understand what you saw.” His chest heaves as his voice well and truly breaks over a sob.

He just wants Mr. Stark back. He's so selfish. He knows that will never happen, and he knows everything Mr. Stark did was for the best, but he… He doesn't care. Mr. Stark would be worth any price to have alive again.

“I'm, just, I'm still so mad,” Peter chokes out, eyes squeezed shut. “And that stupid counselor says it's normal and stuff, but I don't, I don't like being mad at you, Mr. Stark. I don't. I don't want to be, be mad anymore. But I know, I know you can't, can't come back. And it isn't fucking _fair_.” He clenches his arms tighter around himself as he sobs against his knees. He hadn't meant to break down like this.

“I'm sorry, sorry Mr. Stark,” Peter whispers. “You, um, you were, you were just, you know? You were so great. And I miss you. And no one, no one gets me. Not, not like you did. And May keeps, she uh, she keeps acting like I'm gonna, I don't, like, I guess she, uh,” Peter huffs and digs his fingers into his arms. He starts over. “She treats me like I'm, I'm gonna break. I guess. But I think, I think I might...I might already be broken.” He whispers the last words like a terrible, secret confession.

Mr. Stark would have known how to fix him. Mr. Stark was an engineer. He could fix anything. Even people. Peter always believed that, even if Mr. Stark denied it. Mr. Stark was a genius. And kind. And amazing. And maybe, maybe Peter might have loved him like he should have loved his dad. If he could really remember the man.

“So, uh, yeah. Hate to um, hate to be that prick, but I had to, had to tell you, Mr. Stark. I'm, you know? I'm really pissed at you for, for leaving me.” And that's not the right word, ‘leaving,’ like Mr. Stark could ever come back. “I'm pissed you died.” There. He says it. And he doesn't even stutter. He sniffs hard and coughs a little. “So fuck you, Mr. Stark. I still, I still need you. And you, you aren't, you aren't here. Like you, like you promised."

He reaches up and pushes the glasses into his hair. His eyes are squeezed shut, but the sunlight still feels too bright somehow. He scrubs his hands over his face to get rid of the tears, then wipes his palms over his jeans. He doesn't need to leave May waiting too long. Once he feels like his face is dry, he pulls the sunglasses into place and eases his eyes open. It doesn't give him an instant headache to be outside, and he's reminded again of Mr. Stark's genius and generosity.

“I, uh, I gotta go. May’s waiting.” Peter stands slowly, his limbs feeling achy and stiff. He's pretty sure it's all psychosomatic. Whatever. He rests one hand on the headstone and sighs. “Happy, uh, happy father's day, Mr. Stark.” He closes his eyes against a fresh onslaught of tears, fights them back, the walks his way to the car in slow, measured steps.


End file.
